Citation: Jikkle. "Important, Unpleasant Trip: An Experience with DPT (exp21731)". Erowid.org. Mar 2, 2003. erowid.org/exp/21731
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I've had many stupid and ill-conceived ideas in my life. It comes as no surprise, then, that this basic fact should finally have asserted itself in the annals of my drug use.
Heretofore I'd exhibited a remarkable wooden leg to all of the tryptamines. This combined with a natural hunger for and delight in intense experiences has made my attempts to probe the depths of experience rather spotty. It took 25 mg insufflated 5-MeO-DiPT to get me where I wanted to go. 5-MeO-DMT had next to no effect, although I insufflated and vaporized enough to drive most people insane. I was pleasantly surprised, then, when 55 mg insufflated DPT was quite intense, strongly visual (highly unusual for me), and physically difficult.
Some 7 hours after coming down from this first experience, I was aching for more; for the first time I had found a drug I would like to take again immediately. Like any rational person embarking on a 3-hour trip at 10 AM, I unplugged the phone, set up the room for extra comfort (soft halogen light, drawn shades, light bedding), and cleared my mind and relaxed. Like an idiot, an idiot I *knew* I was being, I cut the 60 mg of DPT into a couple of lines and blew them. Alone. In other words, I violated a rule I had previously held sacrosanct: *always* have a sitter.
The first hour of the trip wasn't too bad compared to what came later. 15 minutes passed as I gingerly came up and settled into the peak. I stared at the acoustic tiles on the ceiling, which was breathing and swimming with color. Sometime around 10:20 (I had started at 9:55), I started feeling impatient. Where was the transcendently beautiful intensity of the previous trip? It was at this point, I think, that things began to sour.
My initial awareness that I was being dumb and the ambivalent nature of the experience combined, and I started getting uncomfortable - too hot, thirsty, heart racing. Soon things were getting out of control. I saw men in baseball caps crouching in corners; they were just piles of papers jutting from my bedside table. I also started having trouble seeing. Everything blurred as though a strong wind were smearing it.
I looked at the clock: it was 10:40. I walked to the computer and turned the monitor on; I tried to type some impressions but found I couldn't muster the dexterity. The monitor (which I always have set to low brightness) was much too bright, painfully so - even at 0 brightness it hurt my eyes. I started turning down the contrast, and this was useless, too. The pain scared me, as rightfully it should have; I can't even begin to imagine how dilated my eyes must have been.
I opened up a browser window to try to look up phone numbers of friends - I was deathly afraid to leave the room for fear of being spotted by the janitors, the house manager, the house masters, or my friends. I was especially afraid that they would mock me. I was, however, convinced that if I could only call one of my more experienced friends (or one female friend who had helped to keep me calm during the first DPT trip) that I would come down.
At this point I think I lost consciousness for a little while. When I woke up, I began hurtling around my room, trying vainly to escape the pain and fear I was suffering. As I was doing this, one of the most frightening things I've ever experienced took place. I felt pangs of intense longing for one of my friends who, although he disapproves even of drinking, is accepting and comforting in equal measure. I turned to a chair was certain that he was in it, figuring that my yelling and loud roaming (which were in fact whimpers and cautious motion) had attracted his attention. That the door was locked occurred to me, but I assumed that he'd picked up a key from the security desk. Scared and comforted at the same time, I went to touch his arm only to find him gone - disappeared.
I was really and truly overwhelmed now; I felt everyone I knew and cared about falling away. The janitors and people walking outside my room became policemen and the housemasters getting ready to bang down my door to send me to prison or rehab or an institution.
Right then I finally decided I would meet them on my own terms - I felt certain that if I could get a drink of water that I'd feel better. I was wrong; the brightness of the hall and my fear of running into someone in what I felt was an obviously blitheringly insane state combined. I got two steps into the bathroom before vomiting. As I recall, I didn't even realize I'd thrown up until I saw flecks of it in my hands and on the ground.
I was sure I was dying; I couldn't feel my heartbeat any more. Even if I lived, I was sure that I would be revealed as a drug user to my parents and that they would cut me loose and send me to a public institution to live out my days.
I saw that one of my friends, G, had his door open; I wanted to go to him, but he was listening to some heavy house music. Every beat of the bass drum hurt me. So I kept dodging in and out of my room and the bathroom, back and forth, sometimes closing the door. During a hop into the bedroom, I heard the thud in the bathroom; I ducked back out of the bedroom to see the female janitor rounding the opposite corner to get the necessary supplies to clean up the vomit. I lingered in the hallway, pacing in abject terror, afraid to go anywhere because I was sure cops or other authority figures from school would be there to greet me in their disappointment.
I finally mustered the will to go to my G's room after a few fearful attempts to make the 5 step journey. I asked him what time it was: 10:50. I had been experiencing severe time dilation. I traded a few stilted niceties - I was sure he knew something was up by then (which it turns out he didn't). I went in and out a couple times, hid in my room some more, and finally fled to the lounge in desperation around 11.
G and another friend (who was half-asleep on the couch) were watching TV. G asked me if I had seen the vomit in the bathroom; I jabbed a thumb into my sternum to indicate that it came from me. I had no reason to lie, and at this point I was intent on mitigating the inevitable damage to my reputation and future. G asked me if was going to clean up the vomit; I stammered out 'yeah' in reply, but I just plopped down onto the couch. As Yu-Gi-Oh! came on, he asked why this had happened. I said 'you know' and generally danced around his question until I finally had to come out and say that it was DPT. He wanted to know whether it was a second trip or the first one; when I indicated that it was a second trip, he asked why I had done more. All I could do was shrug and say that I had wanted to.
He shrugged OK, and we started watching the show - I figured that it'd be all right, since I had calmed down a bit. This was a mistake. Yu-Gi-Oh! is a long, victory (read: stomping the other guy into oblivion) focused card game commercial. In this episode, Joey (a Brooklyn dude with a blind sister) was battling a creepy insectoid named Weevil and his parasite queen. There was much goop, scary creatures, etc. Each exchange between the two of them ramped up my terror andistaste like a tire jack until I was very nearly overwhelmed again. I kept asking my friend the time - I desperately wanted this to be over, and I couldn't account for time on my own. Finally the litany of 'ha ha - I've got you now!' and commercials (especially a disturbing Fruity Pebbles commercial) got to be too much. I begged my friend to turn off the TV and go to his room with me.
I felt safer in his room than I had in my own. He was going to take a shower and leave me alone, but I asked him please to stay with me. I was very contrite about it; I kept apologizing over and over for what was happening. He tried to move a chair closer to sit nearer to me, but the noise was too much stimulation; it hurt. After trying to get some information about the DPT out of me - all I could say was '10 AM' and indicate 3 hours' duration - I finally asked him just to read about it, that it would make me feel better. While he was reading, he gave me a watch to look at, and I watched the clock like a hawk.
I finally started coming down around 11:45. We were talking about a date he had that night... Once I was down, I hugged and thanked him. I don't know if I've ever felt better. Our friendship was confirmed, and I had that near-death (perceived near-death?) glow about me. In the shower that afternoon, I sang with unprecedented energy and depth of feeling. In other words, I felt really, truly alive.
So what did I get out of this? Some perspective, for one: in the same way that I've been questing for an alcohol hangover (another wooden leg), I think I was looking for this. I think the potential for pain in these substances finally seemed real. This in turn has given me a sense of respect. I don't mean this in the goofy-dopey-spiritual sense, but in the same way that one respects the power inherent in a hot stove. If you love and look for intensity as I do, you are *bound* to be met with a measure you simply cannot handle at some point.
I also gained a real respect for the concept of the sitter. The best set (eager and happy, if reserved about being alone) and setting (comfort!) means nothing without a sitter. The equilibrating influence really does make a tremendous difference in the quality and tone of the experience, if only because there's someone to share the pain and ecstasy with.
All the same, I would not only consider flying solo again, I would even do it with this much DPT. I know now that I can trust my friends to help me if I need it, without reservations or judgement. I know to let anxiousness go. Finally, I *know* that what I feared is primarily a result of guilt over this hobby. I've worked through it and have come to terms with it. I don't think I'd tell my parents I use hallucinogens, but I'm confident I could deal with it maturely if they found out - even if they wouldn't. For that *alone* this trip was invaluable.
With all that said, I don't want you to read this as a cautionary tale, or as a strong exhortation to always have a sitter. I don't demand that you stick to by-the-book tripping. I'm not saying you should avoid DPT. What I am saying is this: no matter what the tone of the experience, there's potentially a lot to learn from it. Take advantage of that. Don't kill the fun; don't spout abstract slogans instead of enjoying the experience. Just keep in mind that a little thought and a little analysis goes a long way.
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